Rick Chandler

Once upon a time, a site called The Black Table had a regular feature entitled Waxing Off, in which women gathered in an online roundtable to discuss issues of the day, and also to make fun of Will Leitch's shoes. And so we got to thinking: With so many great female sports bloggers out there, why not import the idea here? It's just crazy enough to work. So behold: The first edition of Deadspin's Waxing Off. We found five terrific female writers who were willing to pen short pieces on a rather saucy opening topic: Sex at the ballpark.

There's been more than one account in recent times of sexual activity at sporting events, including the fellatio-related activity in the top row of RFK Stadium pictured here. But would any of this week's contributors ever consider doing such a thing? We pretty much know what the guys think, but what of the women? Let's find out, following the jump. By the way, if you'd like to be part of the Waxing Off mailing list and would like to participate, email myself at Rick@Deadspin.com, or Mr. Daulerio at AJD@Deadspin.com.

Now, as they say, let's get it on ...

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Wanda DeJesus (Metschick):

Sex at the ballpark. Every guy's dream. And if you were talking to Metsy from 2001, she'd definitely be down for that. After all, she's the same girl who had sex: in the backseat of a moving vehicle, right next to a cemetery, on South Beach, in her nephew's bunk bed, etc. Yeah, yeah, I'm sure some commenter out there has done it at his local Starbucks while typing out a witty comment on DUAN. Bite me.

However, between 2001 and now, something changed. I've grown up. More importantly, I've become a mom. I cringe every time I see some skanky behavior immortalized on DS. Ew. Hypocrisy? Perhaps. I'm just thinking that in 15 (dear Lord, let it be at least 15!) years, my 3-year-old daughter might decide to engage in the same behavior. I hope I can instill in her enough class to leave the skankitude behind closed doors. One other thing happened between then and now — I became a professional. Alas, the police frown upon lewd behavior, public indecency, and blow jobs in public. As does the Bar. Prudes.

And remember, there's always going to be photographic evidence. Always. There's too many damn cameras at sporting events, and too many clever jokes to be made on the internet.

Besides, I just spent $75.00 for a ticket to come watch this game. Now you want me to do what? When I can do that at home for you for free? Whatevs, I'm going back to my scorebook and my $8 beer.

Wanda DeJesus (Metschick) is a 29-year-old lawyer-cum-mother. You can see me ogle the hotties and bemoan the Mets' latest loss at Ladies ...

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Sarah Schorno:

Two lesbians make out at a ballgame and suddenly it is an issue? This isn't new. As fans get more adventurous with their public displays of affection, one has to wonder where it all went wrong. I'll tell you what's to blame; the goddamn Kiss Cam. That 60 seconds of torrid entertainment where couples are encouraged to lock lips for the thousands in attendance (hundreds if you're at a Nationals game). When that heart shaped frame shows up on the JumboTron, girls all over the stadium inch closer to their sweeties in hopes of being selected for that moment of spit swapping fame. Most of us only watch in the hopes that it lands on the inevitable father/daughter pairing, anyway.

Outside of the dreaded Kiss Cam, what's acceptable completely depends on the variables involved in any given situation. I mean, fat people making out? No thanks. Two hot chicks groping each other? Pass the popcorn. I don't want to see the mullet-haired guy in front of me putting his nacho cheese covered paws all over his beer swilling wife. Leave that at home, dad. I understand that watching Peyton Manning throw a football is a natural aphrodisiac, but keep it in your pants.

There are certain situations in which getting frisky is not appropriate, regardless of the level of attractiveness of those involved. It is not encouraged to be getting it on with the score tied in the bottom of the ninth. No one wants to watch you suck face when the game's on the line. In addition, all Rockies fans must follow a strict hands off policy. Any Rockies fans having impure thoughts should skip go and head directly to church.

Also not allowed to make out? The douchebag who brings his supermodel girlfriend to the game, proceeds to maul her and then turn around to give the thumbs up to the crowd behind him. We get it, she's hot and she's with you, asshole. She also doesn't give a damn about the game and will demand to leave by the 5th inning. You know what else she doesn't give? Blow jobs. Because she doesn't have to. So enjoy your make out session hot shot. Also enjoy your post-game cold shower.

I realize that targeting specific demographics for exclusion might be seen as unfair. If we're going to unilaterally allow sexual activity at ballgames, I say make it interesting. For every strike out, make out with the fan to your right. A home run? Dry hump the guy in front of you. J.J. Reddick hits a game-winning three? Golden showers for all!

Sarah Schorno is one of Deadspin's new weekend contributors. She is also the editor of the female sports blog collective Playing the Field.

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Claire Zulkey:

I don't understand what the appeal would be of getting it on at a sporting event. I consider the possible locales where this congress would conceivably take place and in each case the "ugh" factor outweighs that of "ooh, hot exhibitionist action" — sticky plastic seats, hot-dog scented concourses, bathrooms where little children of the opposite sex who are too old to be there are running amok — no thanks.

The one exception to my aversion of sporting event PDA is the Kiss Cam. Oh how I love the Kiss Cam. I don't care if to you it's as sentimental as the Brewers' Sausage Race; there's just something nice about taking a few seconds to enjoy a bit of romance during an otherwise sometimes-boorish event, and it seems to make everyone who watches smile. Of course it always follows the same plot: you have the normal couple, who catch themselves on the Cam, laugh and give each other a smooch. You have the couple who fail to realize that they're on the camera and sit there obliviously until maybe somebody pokes them and they grab a hasty peck. The best is always the older couple who go in for the passionate kiss. And then of course you occasionally get those who mouth "SHE'S NOT MY WIFE" or "HE'S MY DAD," which sometimes gets amended when an off-camera person saves the day and provides a third-party cheek kiss.

And finally, there's the two dudes sitting next to each other, who coincidentally cheer for the visiting team. Personally I think the "Hyuck hyuck if you like that team then u r gay" thing is tired but it still gets a laugh. Very rarely do you get the two hot chicks but I think that's for the best because, well, I'm a prudey old lady who is for getting a nice buzz on at a game but against being a big whore in public.

I would really like to be on the Kiss Cam. Why? Because it's cute and funny and romantic and I would like to be seen by many people BEING cute and funny and romantic. I guess though that in its way that makes me an exhibitionist. But I had my name on the scoreboard at US Cellular Field this year for my birthday so maybe I've just had a taste of JumboTron fame and am hungry for more.

Claire Zulkey is a TV critic for the LA Times.com and Onion AV Club. She runs the blog Zulkey.com and next year will be publishing her first young adult novel with Dutton.

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Melissa (Texas Gal):

Sex and Sports: two great tastes that taste great together. I'm all for combining two of life's biggest pleasures when it involves the 50-yard line of an empty stadium, or a deserted dugout at night, or celebration at home after a victory. Winning, after all, is by far the biggest aphrodisiac … much better than oysters or Drakkar Noir (seriously, guys: quit with the Drakkar – it's so 1992).

But sex in the stands during a live sporting event? No, thanks. If I even considered such a thing, my dyed-in-the-wool Southern grandmother would roll over in her grave, clutch her pearls, and then faint dead away again from the tackiness of it all. Not to mention the more important consideration: I don't like to miss any of the action on the field. Unless Nolan Ryan himself sits down next to me, there's nothing going on in the stands that could be more interesting to me than what's going on down on the field. Except for a brawl … brawls are always guaranteed fun. Even more so if the brawl somehow involves Nolan Ryan.

I definitely understand the urge: you're drunk and hopped up on the atmosphere at the stadium and the testosterone surge that's always present at any sporting contest. Sweaty men running around in tight pants and eyeblack also tend to make girls' knees go weak. And, of course, there's also the thrill of public exhibitionism. But I fear the reality would just be sloppy and clumsy - and, Murphy's Law, I'd be distracted and miss seeing an unassisted triple play or a fantastic conversion on fourth-and-long.

Godspeed to any gal who is willing to find herself the subject of discussion on Deadspin after attending to her man's needs at RFK. I won't be that gal. Then again, my Southern sense of propriety isn't for everyone, and so I'm also not going to be offended by any girl who pulls it off. (ahem.) Unless she's wearing a pink hat. Now that's offensive.

Melissa (Texas Gal) resides in Boston, lives and dies with the Texas Longhorns, obsesses about the Red Sox and worships the Dallas Cowboys - thus making her potentially the most obnoxious sports fan in existence. She writes about the Sox at Center Field, contributes baseball thoughts to Babes Love Baseball and is part of the Playing The Field crew.

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Head Chick In Charge:

Ever since Ludacris rapped, "I wanna get you in the Georgia Dome on the 50-yard-line while the Dirty Birds kick the 3," in the 2000 opus, "What's Your Fantasy," the modern youth has pondered making love between the lines. Or in the stands, if that's as close as they can get. And if Arthur Blank wants to watch, then that's just more fun for everybody. Well, not me personally, of course. I'm a nice girl and I heed Ludacris' advice like Barack Obama.

That said, do you know what a stadium-sized beer can do to a woman? Not just any beer, but an extra-large $10 beer. Oh my ... it can get you just right. Like that second glass of chardonnay or that one apple martini. And you're shifting around in your uncomfortable bleacher seats trying to get comfortable for the 3-hour spectacle. You know where friction and squirming leads. And you got a visual of David Wright/Reggie Bush/LeBron James right in front of you? You look over to the one you're with. And you just make do. He won't even have to know. Just don't call out the wrong name.

Sports is romantic. But it's easy to take it too far. There's a fine line between enjoying the inherent romance of an afternoon ball game and sexy, sweaty, dirty physicality. Like I said, it barely takes a $10 beer. Some people just get caught up. Yes, some get confused. Your seats have a similar price tag, but you're not spending the afternoon at a hotel. No, it's not that kind of mile high when you go to Invesco to watch the Broncos. But be patient and understanding with these folks. There's too much titillation out there for the fan. Inappropriate behavior is inevitable.

The DJ is probably blasting, "Make Love in This Club," during the timeouts at your local arena. You're just dead inside if Usher doesn't bring out the exhibitionist in you.

Your favorite columnists stoke the flame in your loins. Before Peter King could electronically submit columns about Brett Favre, things were probably very uncomfortable and sticky for his editor when he handed his hard copy pieces in. And if John Madden's voice was amplified inside the stadium when he spoke of his precious Brett, the lust in his voice would like incite a mass copulation. A more sexy wave, if you will.

The worst pornographers are the guys in the TV booth. Not only does sports makes people horny, it turns them gay! No wonder lesbians are getting it on at Safeco. Did you see the opening and closing sequences of Hard Knocks the other night? No homo though. How do the guys in the editing truck at HBO justify themselves? "Yeah, let's get some b-roll of Terrell Owens on a beach. Yeah, yeah." "Shirtless, Joe?" "Of course! And let's oil him up a little. And have him run in slow, slow, slow motion on a beautiful white beach. Yes, so his breasts, um, pecs bounce up and down, up and down." (btw, they're all natural, in you case were wondering) Yes, that is the essence of training camp.

No worries though, guys. HBO wasn't the first to be overwhelmed by a bad boy and his pretty smile when they should have been focusing on downs and tackles. Fox has given that leotard way too much camera time for far too long (not really). Brett Favre's scruff should have its own talent agent. And all the boys swoon and giggle when they see what new highlights David Beckham has in his coif when they pass around the latest GQ Magazine in the TV truck.

So when you hear of the next "incident" at your favorite field, just keep some perspective. With a few deep breaths, you might even find yourself feeling understanding when you witness people getting carried away in the stadium. It's not right, but it's to be expected. Update your Twitter with, "SMDH." And let security handle it.

When not defending public copulation, the Head Chick In Charge defends Terrell Owens and poor wardrobe choices, among other things, at her blog leavethemanalone.com. She used to be a pretty good blogger, but has become lazy because of The Man's insistence that she attend to her real job. Most recently, she has been kicked to the curb by her fantasy football GM and his name is not Ted Thompson. So if anybody needs a final person to join their league, has complaints or otherwise, feel free to direct all inquiries to leavethemanalone@gmail.com.